Death is the Wages of Sin
by stress
Summary: The story of Becky McKay and Spot Conlon, a modern day Bonnie and Clyde. [modern!fic, language, minor violence, dark humor, minor slash later] It was supposed to be an easy hit. Who knew that the clerk had a gun behind the counter?
1. i: the poem

Disclaimer: _I do not own the characters of Spot Conlon, Jack Kelly or any other character from the 1992 Disney musical, _Newsies_. I do, however, own Jessa Rhian and Becky McKay. The plot is my own; the story's title comes from the poem, "The Story of Bonnie and Clyde" by Bonnie Parker. _

--

**death** **is the wages of sin **

The story of Becky McKay and Spot Conlon, a modern day Bonnie and Clyde.  
_They've been shot at before but they do not ignore that death is the wages of sin. _

_--_

**i; the poem**

_You've read the story of Jesse James—  
Of how he lived and died;  
If you're still in need  
Of something to read  
Here's the story of Bonnie and Clyde._

_Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang.  
I'm sure you all have read  
How they rob and steal  
And those who squeal  
Are usually found dying or dead._

_There's lots of untruths to these write-ups;  
They're not so ruthless as that;  
Their nature is raw;  
They hate the law—  
The stool pigeons, spotters, and rats._

_They call them cold-blooded killers;  
They say they are heartless and mean;  
But I say this with pride,  
That I once knew Clyde  
When he was honest and upright and clean._

_But the laws fooled around,  
Kept taking him down  
And locking him up in a cell,  
Till he said to me,  
"I'll never be free, So I'll meet a few of them in hell."_

_The road was so dimly lighted;  
There were no highway signs to guide;  
But they made up their minds If all roads were blind,  
They wouldn't give up till they died._

_The road gets dimmer and dimmer;  
Sometimes you can hardly see;  
But it's fight, man to man,  
And do all you can,  
For they know they can never be free._

_From heart-break some people have suffered;  
From weariness some people have died;  
But take it all in all,  
Our troubles are small  
Till we get like Bonnie and Clyde._

_If a policeman is killed in Dallas,  
And they have no clue or guide;  
If they can't find a fiend,  
They just wipe their slate clean  
And hang it on Bonnie and Clyde._

_There's two crimes committed in America  
Not accredited to the Barrow mob;  
They had no hand In the kidnap demand,  
Nor the Kansas City Depot job._

_A newsboy once said to his buddy:  
"I wish old Clyde would get jumped;  
In these awful hard times  
We'd make a few dimes  
If five or six cops would get bumped."_

_The police haven't got the report yet,  
But Clyde called me up today;  
He said, "Don't start any fights—  
We aren't working nights—  
We're joining the NRA."_

_From Irving to West Dallas viaduct  
Is known as the Great Divide,  
Where the women are kin,  
And the men are men,  
And they won't "stool" on Bonnie and Clyde._

_If they try to act like citizens  
And rent them a nice little flat,  
About the third night  
They're invited to fight  
By a sub-gun's rat-tat-tat._

_They don't think they're too smart or desperate,  
They know that the law always wins;  
They've been shot at before,  
But they do not ignore  
**That death is the wages of sin**._

_Some day they'll go down together;  
They'll bury them side by side;  
To few it'll be grief—  
To the law a relief—  
But it's death for Bonnie and Clyde._

"The Story of Bonnie and Clyde" by Bonnie Parker, of the infamous Bonnie and Clyde


	2. ii: the job

Disclaimer: _I do not own the characters of Spot Conlon, Jack Kelly or any other character from the 1992 Disney musical, _Newsies_. I do, however, own Jessa Rhian and Becky McKay. The plot is my own; the story's title comes from the poem, "The Story of Bonnie and Clyde" by Bonnie Parker. _

--

**death** **is the wages of sin **

The story of Becky McKay and Spot Conlon, a modern day Bonnie and Clyde.  
_They've been shot at before but they do not ignore that death is the wages of sin. _

_--_

**ii; the job**

She tucked a strand of her long raven hair behind her ear as she flipped through the pages of the most recent Cosmopolitan magazine. The front cover had offered an article on 'How to Please Your Man' and she thought it was worth a laugh to check it out. It may not be worth the $3.95 that the magazine cost but, hey, she could hang out in the Quick Stop for a few more minutes to learn a couple new tricks. Right?

Out of the corner of her blue eyes, she saw the cashier looking her over. She was well aware that she was pretty with her high cheekbones, tan complexion, small waistline and big bust – and, of course, the short skirt she was wearing showed more thigh than you would find at KFC – and was used to garnering the attention of the opposite sex. She curled her lip seductively, giving him just enough to continue to stare. It did amuse her so.

The man behind the counter – boy, really – looked fresh out of high school. He was super tall and very thin, with an almost geeky look about him. His dark hair was greasy and slicked to his head; the only thing oilier than his hair was his crater face. He was openly staring at her now, his slack jaw resting open. And, to be honest, he was beginning to creep her out.

Rather than turn her nose up at him, she continued to smile. It was a coy little smile, showing just enough of her teeth, that caused him to blush. Trying not to laugh, the girl turned slightly, her attention back on the magazine. Sometimes she enjoyed giving boys like that something to fantasize about when they were alone at night.

The worker's attention was now solely on her ass. When she had turned, she gave him a perfect view - purposely. In fact, he was so preoccupied that, when a pair of boys – Yankees fans, by the look of them – came shuffling into the convenience store, he paid them no mind. He was only looking at this attractive girl, currently lazing about in the magazine section.

And that's when all hell broke loose.

--

There was an old '91 Buick, grey with streaks of mauve primer dashed across it, parked in the furthest spot in the small parking lot. It had been there for the past quarter of an hour and not one of the people rushing in and out of the Quick Stop even looked twice at the car.

Which, of course, was a good thing.

It was a four door vehicle, with a dent on the driver's side front door; that mark was the only bit of personality on the old car yet this car – and, more importantly, the three passengers it contained – was the most infamous car of its kind. It was fast. It was reliable. And, best of all, it was indiscernible. No one was concerned with a car like this one.

The boy in the driver's seat was tapping out a melody, using his fingers as drumsticks against the worn leather steering wheel. His fair hair, the creamy color of café au lait, was cropped short. His piercing cyan eyes were darting to and fro, keeping watch for the opportune moment. His thin lips were curled at the ends in a waiting smirk.

He was the predator. The Quick Stop convenience store was his prey. _I'm waiting._

The passenger seat beside him was empty except for a pair of guns that were lying, almost forgotten. They were settled, absently, atop of a beige sack that covered most of the grey material. However, the boy knew they would not be sitting idly by much longer.

_Waiting…_

His fingers itched to be wrapped around the cool metal but he knew better. He had to wait for the signal.

He wasn't the only one getting annoyed with the wait. His right hand man, the tall boy sitting in the seat directly behind him, was nervously kicking his chair. He could see his friend, running his left hand anxiously through his shaggy brown hair, as he leaned into his seat. His right hand was holding that of the girl sitting next to him.

Of the three of them, she seemed the most at ease. She was curled up against the doorway, her right hand tucked behind her head, working as a fleshy pillow. Her eyelids were closed, hiding her green eyes; her plump lips were slightly parted. The only sign that she was awake, and not asleep, was her left hand. While her slender hand was resting within the hand of her male companion, her thumb had escaped the hold and was rubbing the outside of his hand. It was a rare moment of intimacy for the pair. It would not last.

It was quiet in the car; it was always quiet before they did a job. They knew what the needed to do and they did it. This time was no different. They just had to wait for the signal.

--

"Cowboy." His voice was low and, if they hadn't killed the engine – effectively cutting off the radio, to which the girl had mumbled under her breath about 'music nazis' – it would have been almost impossible to hear it.

But the boy in the back heard the nickname and responded to it. He withdrew his hand from the girl's and leaned forward. He had his left hand on the driver's headrest, his right hand on the passenger's; his head was in the middle when he turned to look at the driver. He was prepared – his face held no nonsense as he said, "Yeah, Spot?"

The driver's eyes remained focused on the glass doors of the Quick Stop. "It's time."

The boy, Cowboy, nodded. He reached his hand forward and grabbed one of the guns. The metal felt cold in his hand and, for just a moment, he ran his hands down the barrel of the gun, almost caressing it. One he was satisfied with it, he grabbed the large beige sack before sitting back down. He lifted his rear off of the back seat and tucked the gun, safety engaged – just in case – behind his back, in his waistband. The bag he balled up and kept in his fist. He jerked his head in affirmation. "Ready."

The girl was watching Cowboy's preparations curiously. No longer curled up with her feet on the seat, she was on her knees, facing the boy. She leaned forward and pecked his cheek chastely. "Be careful," was all she said before she fell back to rest against the door.

He nodded, a flicker of a charming grin splitting his face. It did not last long, though. He knew they had a job to do.

Spot picked up the remaining gun and slipped it into his large black jacket. He was a skinny boy and the oversized coat made it much harder for a victim to give an accurate description. Then, without removing his steadfast gaze from the storefront, he reached down to the floor of the old car and pulled out a matching pair of faded New York Yankees caps. He tossed one behind him before pulling its twin onto his head.

He looked at the girl. "Out in three, Jess," he said.

She nodded.

--

Her nose was still in the magazine. She had read the article on 'How to Please Your Man' and was now working on one called, much to her amusement, '101 Ways to Orgasm' when she saw two newcomers approach the counter. She took a moment to look at them. For the past ten minutes or so, she had been left alone with the clerk in the store. She was interested to see who had joined them.

They were both young men – late teens, early twenties, perhaps – and each wore a blue hat with a Yankees logo on it. The shorter of the two, nearly a head shorter than his companion, wore a large overcoat despite the early spring weather. His complexion was fair and his profile was sharp as she watched him approach the counter and ask the clerk for something.

His friend, she could see as he followed the other boy to the counter, was taller and broader, with a head of thick sandy hair that stuck somewhat out from under his cap. He wore a simple white t-shirt that was loose but accented his trim body and a pair of denim-washed jeans. There was a red bandana tied loosely around his neck that caught her attention. Vaguely, she wondered why he was wearing it.

As a partially interested spectator, she watched as the cashier turned his back on them. Whatever it was the short boy had asked for, it was on the wall behind the clerk.

In the few seconds where his back was turned, the pair sprang into action. The taller of the two stayed at the counter; the smaller boy met her in three strides. Both of them pulled guns out from only god knows where.

Cosmopolitan drifted to the floor, forgotten, as cold metal was pressed against her temple.

--

He had turned around to pull a pack of Trojans – extra large, the boy had requested, with a smirk – off of the wall but, when he turned to hand them to the customer, he found he was now staring down the barrel of a gun. He gulped. Loudly. Slowly, he lifted his hands up, palms facing outward.

It was one of the two boys he had just been serving that was wielding the gun. His cap was slung low, purposefully covering his eyes. He knew, if it came down to it, he would never be able to identify the gunman. _Oh, man…_

"Open the register and put all the money inside this sack," the gunman said, speaking in a gruff voice that sounded strained. It was definitely not his own. He shook his right hand and then, almost as if appearing out of thin air, he had a bag. He tossed it underhandedly at one of the clerk's open hands.

The coarse fabric of the sack felt unnatural to his fingertips. His hands were shaking as they grasped the bag. He slowly tried to open it and fumbled with the lid of it to stall for time. He knew that it was only time before another customer came in and these would-be thieves were caught.

And that's when she cried out.

--

He had forgotten about the pretty girl reading the magazines. But, now, his eyes were drawn to her, just like a moth being drawn to the irresistible lure of a flame. His stomach flip-flopped at the sight.

The second of the robbers was standing right beside her. While he and she were almost exactly the same height, the gun in his hand made him seem that much bigger. And that gun was currently buried within the girl's black hair. She was whimpering now, her eyes on the floor.

He was sweating and he knew it. His eyes met those of the boy who was threatening her. The criminal's lips curled. "Put the money in the fucking sack," he said, the profanity sounding almost natural coming from him – almost as if it were a word he used all of the time. Nevertheless, it only served to make him seem more intimidating while, at the same time, making the cashier all the more frightened. "Put the money in the fucking sack or I'll blow her pretty brains out." He paused and glared fiercely, glared coldly. The clerk had no doubt that he could – and would – pull that trigger. "Did you hear me, asshole?"

There was a click just then. His accomplice, the boy that was standing directly in front of him, had just undone the safety on his gun. He was sneering. "And then I'll have to blow your brains out, too, I guess."

He knew he couldn't play the hero any longer. Not when they were threatening the girl, too. With a heavy finger, he pressed the 'no sale' key and began to fill up the sack.

--

The thief took the sack as soon as it was filled. Once it was in his hand, he lifted his gun so that it was aimed somewhere between the eyes of the clerk. "Move," he said.

He moved.

The second robber dropped his gun from the hostage's head. She almost sighed in relief; silent tears had filled her blue eyes during the hurried robbery and the seconds had seemed to drag on for hours. She just wanted this to be over with.

The relief was short-lived. Almost as soon as the gun had been removed from her head, she felt the poke of the pistol in her back. "Move," the second boy commanded.

She moved.

The taller crook kept his gun on the cashier until he was at the door. His partner joined him, forcing the girl forward. He was obviously the brains behind the entire operation because, when they stopped at the front, he was the one giving the order. But, just like the other boy, he had the sense to keep his head down as he barked out his instructions. It would be impossible to identify him either. Which, of course, was their aim. This was not the first time they had pulled something like this; it would not be their last, either.

He placed his hand on the arm of the girl before removing his gun and turning it on the cashier. "You're going to stand at this door with your hands over your fucking head. Got me?" When the cashier didn't do or say anything but let his knees knock against each other, the gunman cocked his weapon. "I said, do you got me?" He was almost growling.

The clerk, pale and visibly sweating, finally nodded. Slowly, he lifted his hands again.

He turned the gun back on the girl. "And you… you're gonna come with us. This way, if there's trouble, we got someone to take it out on. You'll be fucking dead." As he said his last statement, he turned back to face the cashier. "And then we'll come back for you, dipstick."

Neither of them doubted his words.

--

Spot roughly shuffled the girl in front of him, the mouth of his gun pressing into the small of her back again. Cowboy walked behind the pair, keeping his eye turned back on the shaking cashier. When they got to the car, they saw that Jess had exchanged her position in the car. She was now sitting in the driver's seat and the car had already been started.

The old Buick was no longer parked in the last spot in the parking lot; while Spot and Cowboy had been inside, she had moved the car to the other end of the lot, facing the exit for a quick getaway. She was sitting up straight, whistling to herself as she waited for them all the get inside the car. For her, this was always the most nerve wracking part of any job.

Cowboy checked to make sure that the clerk was still at the front of the store, his hands high in the air as he had been ordered. The teenager looked white with fear but he had chosen to obey Spot's command. Cowboy nodded to himself as he ran around to the other side of the car, banging on the roof of the Buick before grabbing at the passenger's side door hand. He climbed in, choosing to sit next to Jess.

Spot continued to move his hostage forward. They got to the car before Cowboy and Spot hissed for the girl to get in. She did without a word, climbing into the back seat. He climbed in after her.

Once Spot saw that Cowboy was safely in the car, he nodded. "Drive, Jess," he said and the girl at the wheel stepped on the gas pedal.

He couldn't help but notice, as he slowly came off the high that accompanied every successful job, that Jess had turned the radio on and changed the station back to her favorite while he and Cowboy were occupied.

--

The tears, which had come so quickly and fallen so freely when she was captured – taken by these hoodlums as no more than a bargaining chip should they get caught – stopped almost at once. By the time that the Quick Stop was out of her sight – the driver drove too quickly for her liking – there was not a trace of wetness left on her cheeks. Instead, she was laughing. Loudly.

Her captor, his gun hidden from sight, gave her an odd look as one of his eyebrows quirked his amusement. "What's so funny?" he asked. He didn't sound anywhere near as menacing as he did before. Now he just sounded curious.

She shook her head, her long raven hair swaying before settling down her back. "Did you see that kid back there? I think the little prick just about pissed himself."

The driver joined in on the laughter, giggling under her breath. "Oh, come on. Really? Aw, man, I wish I could have seen that." Her voice was a bit remorseful. It was not fun for Jess to be left behind in the car every time the boys' pulled a robbery. She always missed all the excitement.

The boy beside her turned to look at her, still a little out of breath from the excitement. "Hey, if you did that, then who would drive the damn car?" Cowboy countered as he put his hand on Jess's bare leg in what he assumed was a reassuring manner. She had thrown on a pair of cut-offs that morning, leaving her almost as scantily clad as the girl in the back seat; the gesture came off as simply lecherous, though, considering Jess was well aware of the boy's true intentions. She took her hand off of the wheel long enough to swat at his roving hand – it was slowly inching its way up her thigh.

"Jess, wheel," commanded Spot, albeit somewhat lazily, as the car made an unexpected swerve. He sighed. "Leave her alone while she's driving, Jacky," he added, leaning forward and smacking Cowboy on the back his head. On normal circumstances, he preferred to do all the driving but, after a job, he left that to Jess. It made her feel useful. He and Cowboy were the only muscle they needed in the gang, even if the other boy had hands with a mind of their own.

And they already had their decoy.

Once he was sure that Jess wasn't going to crash the car – Cowboy's hands were back in his lap, where they belonged – Spot sat back and pulled his hostage into his lap. She didn't protest at all.

Instead, with one swift motion, she yanked at the top of her hair. When she pulled her hand away, a raven wig came with it, releasing a tumble of almost white blonde hair. She shook her hair out until satisfied that the shoulder length hair wasn't as flat as it had been. If there was one thing she hated about wearing a wig, it was the way her hair looked later on.

She tilted her head back and reached upward for Spot's lips. After fleeing the Quick Stop, he had removed the Yankees cap; she could see the excitement that was still written within the depths of his beautiful eyes. She grinned to herself. As she well knew, there was nothing like a successful job to get him all fired up.

He met her lips and they kissed briefly before he pulled away. They would have to wait until later until Jess arrived at the latest motel that would house them until they cased a new store, to do anything further.

"You did good back there, Becky," he said. He always said this. It was his way of showing her how much he appreciated her. It was the most she could ever expect from Spot Conlon.

Becky smirked, a trait that she had picked up from him sometime during the last three years. "Hey, you're not so bad yourself, Conlon," she replied. Just the way she always answered him.

Cowboy, from his seat in the front, just shook his head at Beck and Spot's antics. That is, before he slowly began to reach for Jess's thigh again.

_Ah, the Conlon Gang._ Becky leaned back against Spot, reveling in the rhythmic rumble of the old car as it slowed its pace and, despite the swerve that told her that Cowboy had made contact with Jess's flesh again, finally met the speed limit. _Home_.

--

author's note: _I really did not intend to start another story. Really. However, this plot bunny has been nibbling at my ankles for almost a week now and I knew it would never rest until I started it. And, what did you know, I highly enjoyed myself while writing this first chapter. Yay. _

_This is my first modern!fic in the Newsies fandom and I'm not altogether sure that I can pull this off. There will be drugs, language, violence and sex (including some slash) in this story – might as well throw everything in, right? _

_I would really adore any feedback that any readers have. I've always stuck to the 1900 universe with the boys (well, except for Diabo, but that's because it's a ghost story and Jack's been dead for 100 years). Is it good? Does it suck? Should I trash this? Let me know. I'm curious. _


	3. iii: the getaway

Disclaimer: _I do not own the characters of Spot Conlon, Jack Kelly or any other character from the 1992 Disney musical, _Newsies_. I do, however, own Jessa Rhian and Becky McKay. The plot is my own; the story's title comes from the poem, "The Story of Bonnie and Clyde" by Bonnie Parker. _

--

**death** **is the wages of sin **

The story of Becky McKay and Spot Conlon, a modern day Bonnie and Clyde.  
_They've been shot at before but they do not ignore that death is the wages of sin. _

_--_

**iii; the getaway**

Becky McKay woke up to the normal sounds of blissful disagreement that came from the front seat. Jack 'Cowboy' Kelly and Jessa Rhian were at it once again. _I swear. If they ain't pussyfooting around each other, the two of them are fucking fighting, _she thought, unable to contain her smile. _And I wouldn't have them any other way. _She chose not to stretch out and lose the last vestiges of her rest; instead, she leaned back against Spot – who was, as he put it earlier, 'just resting his eyes' – as she cozily listened to their argument. Spot grunted slightly as her weight shifted in his lap but, nevertheless, he remained asleep.

"Cowboy," the driver was saying, as she reached over and, with the hand not still on the steering wheel, shoved the boy in his shoulder. "If you drape your hand on my knee one more time…" The rest of her threat was left hanging as he slyly drew his hand back.

He smirked, his lips quirking upwards, twisting his face in a way that, surprisingly, made him all the more handsome. "I'm sorry, Jess. It's just that it's so tempting, sitting here next to you. I can't help but touch," he added, before using his hand to brush a piece of sandy colored hair out of his chocolate-brown eyes. He had purposely lowered his head so that his hair would fall forward; he knew it made him appear almost irresistible to the girl.

Jess looked at him sideways and, when she grinned, both Becky and Jack knew that he had won. Again.

Becky just shook her head. In the three years that she had known the two of them, ever since she met them at one of Ellie Smith's infamous parties, neither one of them had openly admitted their affection for the other – though anyone who saw them at it could tell something was there. Sure, Jack copped a cheap feel at any given opportunity and, that time when she and Spot had gotten Jessa properly wasted, the girl had confessed that she had feelings for Cowboy (and Catherine Zeta-Jones, oddly enough) but it was never actually _said._

Not that Becky had anything to criticize about. She and Spot had been 'together' since she was seventeen and crashed that one party following graduation. Aside from sleeping together and robbing convenience stores when they were awake (and _not_ out partying), she wasn't sure what sort of relationship they really had.

But she still loved him. He was _her _Spot Conlon.

_All mine…_

--

He hadn't always been _her _Spot Conlon. In fact, the first time they met, at Ellie Smith's Summer Bash '03, she only thought of him as that 'conceited jerk with the tattoo'.

Said tattoo was comprised of a deliberate and ornate design but was entirely hidden from view. It extended across his entire back and, while made up of a twisted design – full of the Catholic ideal of Angels vs. Devils all engulfed in blue flames that sprouted from the small of his back – there were only three words: CONLON, _until death_.

His last name covered the broadness of his back in a large blocky print, simple in its set-up; the two words underneath were considerably smaller and appeared almost as if a calligrapher had found his back a lithe and limber drawing pad.

Becky had been lucky to see his tattoo that first time. Even though it was a party commemorating the summer season, and most everyone invited came in a bathing suit – eager to take advantage of the underground pool that Ellie had in her backyard – Spot Conlon had arrived in a tight black short-sleeved sleeve and long, baggy jeans. He didn't even seem hot at all.

She had gone to the party on the arm of a boy called Oscar Delancey. He had told her that he was friends with these people; she found out later that he and his brother, Morris, were always getting on the wrong side of Spot Conlon and his pal, Jack Kelly. He only told her they were invited so he could get in her pants during the after-party.

She had not liked Oscar at all but her mother had been on her case recently, telling her that seventeen year old girls should date. So, when she bumped into the Delancey's at a local Quick Stop (the first one she helped Spot rob, ironically), and Oscar asked her to be his date to a pool party, she agreed.

She never knew that one party would change her life forever.

--

Strangely enough, she caught Spot Conlon's eye first. She hadn't even seen him there, sitting at a table with Jack, until Oscar stormed over to him. Oscar, jealously, had noticed that Spot hadn't removed his eyes from Becky once since they had arrived. Considering the skimpy bikini she wore to the party, he was not too surprised. But _she _was _his _girl. He wasn't going to surrender her to Conlon.

And, with a profanity-laced, heated statement, Oscar told the smaller boy as much.

Becky had felt her face going red as she stood a few paces behind Oscar. _I'm going to kill Ma for this one_, she thought, entirely aware that quite a few of the party-goers were staring at either her or Oscar. But that was not the worst of it. When Oscar grew frustrated that all Spot did was roll his eyes and turn back to talking to Jack, as if Oscar wasn't even worth an answer, he spitefully picked up Spot's beer and, lifting it over Spot's head, proceeded to dump the contents on top of his fair hair.

At the time, she thought Spot was angry. She was wrong, of course; she did not know his true ire until much later. But, when he slowly stood up and, all calm-like, approached Oscar, the entire party seemed to just stop. Or maybe it just seemed that way to Becky.

Beer dripping down his face, she saw his eyes for the first time. When he was sitting at the table, he had a heavy-lidded stare; his eyes, outlined in heavy, dark eyeliner that made them all the more exquisite, had been hidden. But then she saw them. They were such a unique color and she was taken in almost at once. With those eyes, it was as if he was looking _through _her. She still feels that way.

His gaze was on her for a moment – only a moment – but it was in that single moment that his eyes told her that what he was about to do, it was for _her._ He actually admitted that her perception of the even was true, much later, in a rare moment of vulnerability.

The simple gaze was just a gaze. It was over before it had begun and his attention was focused solely on Oscar. The younger of the two Delancey brothers wasn't afraid. He saw Spot as nothing more than a fag, wearing tight shirts and eye make-up. He was shorter than Oscar and it was a favorite past time of his and his brother's to crack on Spot and Jack. The two were always together and the Delancey's were convinced they were lovers; that curly-haired bitch that usually hung around them was nothing more than a fag hag.

Spot normally ignored Oscar and convinced Jack to do the same. They weren't worth it. But this wasn't just some stupid comments being tossed by ignorant monkeys. This was a matter of pride.

No one poured a can of Busch on Spot Conlon. It was a waste of good beer.

It took one swing and Oscar was down; two more and he was not getting back up just yet. Jack, just _knowing _what Spot was going to do, held Morris back. He didn't let him go until Oscar was out. Without his brother to back him up, Morris lost his nerve.

Spot graced Becky with one more smirk before peeling the soaked shirt from his tan skin, revealing his tattoo. He nodded to Jack Kelly and the taller – and, while handsome, he was definitely more conventional in his appearance (khakis, white polo and, his trademark, a red bandana) – boy followed him as they both left the party,

--

The next time Ellie Smith had a party, she crashed it by herself. She had not been able to get Spot Conlon, or that last parting look her gave her as he sauntered out of the party – his back, and tattoo, exposed – out of her head. He was there, looking as unruffled and uncaring as he had at that first party – wearing the same black shirt and baggy jeans – she later learned that was his unofficial costume; he had six of the same tight black shirts.

Again, he sat at a table, far from the rest of the crowd, accompanied by _two _people this time: the same other boy as before and a girl. She was pretty but not as attractive as Becky knew she was. She had long curly hair, honey colored, and was wearing a bikini as flattering as Becky's own. She learned, that night, this pair was Jack Kelly and Jessa Rhian; the three of them had been friends since middle school and had just graduated from a fancy New York high school. She also learned just what kind of twisted 'love/hate' relationship Jack and Jessa had – even three years later, they still acted like elementary school children with a crush.

There was a fourth chair at the round table, and it was unoccupied. When she, daringly, took the seat, Spot Conlon smirked.

He had been waiting for her.

--

The next time she woke up in the old Buick – she was forever falling asleep in the car when Jess drove; it was the only time she got a real rest considering how much she didn't trust Spot behind the wheel – Spot was already awake. Sometime during her afternoon nap, he had moved her over. She was now sitting in the seat behind Jess; she could see the girls' long ponytail of honey brown curls (au natural) resting over the seat. Becky resisted the urge to give it a pull.

Spot was leaning forward, his head between both the driver and passenger seats. He was obviously in the middle of a discussion with his second-in-command.

"So, how much did that last job get us, Jacky-Boy?"

Jack unbuckled his seat belt. Once he was free, he reached down and picked the beige sack up off of the floor. He shook it gently before handing it behind him. Spot accepted it. "We got about $400 at that Quick Stop," Jack said.

Spot opened the mouth of the bag and peered inside. He could see a mess of singles, fives, tens and twenties just tossed in the bag. Then he placed his nose inside the bag and breathed in deep. He loved the smell of money.

When he was done – none of his companions said anything of his behavior; they were just glad he didn't want to swim in their loot like Scrooge McDuck did – he twisted the top of the sack shut and shoved it underneath his seat. "Not too bad. But what do you expect from a shop in the middle of the Jersey suburbs?"

Becky snorted and, only then, did Spot know she was awake again. He didn't turn around but reached behind him and squeezed her knee. Unlike Jess, Becky didn't mind when Spot touched her.

Even if she did mind that he made fun of New Jersey. Though the other three of them had gone to the same private school in Manhattan since they were kids, Becky had lived in the small town of Metuchen (in Central Jersey) until she was fifteen. She still had a soft spot for the butt of every New Yorker's jokes and it was the one thing that she would not give up for Spot.

Wary of another New York vs. New Jersey debate – as inevitable as it was – Jess cut in. "Speaking of Jersey, we just got off the turnpike."

"Yeah," added Jack, as he held his hand out to Spot, "that reminds me. You owe me for the toll."

"Fucking Jersey. What other state charges you to leave?" Spot muttered under his breath as he reached down to pick up the sack.

Becky smacked him in the back. "First of all, New Jersey is the shit. And, second, get your hands out of the loot. You know that you don't touch the money until we divvy it up."

Spot turned around to face the girl. He had a sardonic grin stretched across his sharp face. "I love it when you spit back my own rules at me, Beck."

All she did was pucker her lips before blowing a kiss at him.

--

It was dark then and, as she looked out the driver side window, she had no idea where she was. All she saw were trees. Lots and lots of trees. "Hey, Jess?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how you just said that we got off the turnpike?"

"Yeah…"

"Where the hell are we?"

There was a pause. Then Jack snickered. Jess reached over and hit him again. If he wasn't careful, he was going to have one hell of a bruise by the time they finally stopped the car.

"Shut up, Cowboy," Jess snapped, her voice suddenly sounding extremely peevish. "It's your fault, anyways. You shouldn't have grabbed at me when I was looking for the on-ramp."

Spot, who was leaning back in the seat again, picking at his nails, perked up. "What did Jacky-Boy do now?" He didn't sound too particularly interested at what the other boy had done. After all, most of what went wrong was accredited to Cowboy. Spot definitely was the brains behind the operation; Jack just made it look good.

"Hey, it ain't my fault that Jess went south instead of north like we planned," Jack said, as he scooted over towards the door in order to avoid another of her mad swipes. He was laughing at her now. Jess didn't like that.

Becky was a bit confused – she wasn't a blonde for nothing. "South? Do you mean we're in Alabama or some shit like that?"

She couldn't see it but Jess rolled her eyes. "No, Beck. We've only been driving for three hours – we couldn't have gone that far now, could we?"

"Be nice, Jess."

Jess heeded Spot and kept her eyes on the road. She did, however, stick out her tongue.

Jack laughed again before turning around to face Spot and Becky. "We just entered Delaware."

--

Author's Note: _And here is the next chapter. I guess this is the sign that, yes, I will be working on this story... for now. I do like it. It's quite interesting to do modern!fic, and I decided to put a bit of humor in it. Also, everybody who replied to the casting call will be in the story. Ellie (Gimmick) already has a brief mention, so, yeah, I don't own her._


	4. iv: the detour

Disclaimer: _I do not own the characters of Spot Conlon, Jack Kelly or any other character from the 1992 Disney musical, _Newsies_. I do, however, own Jessa Rhian and Becky McKay. The plot is my own; the story's title comes from the poem, "The Story of Bonnie and Clyde" by Bonnie Parker. _

--

**death** **is the wages of sin **

The story of Becky McKay and Spot Conlon, a modern day Bonnie and Clyde.  
_They've been shot at before but they do not ignore that death is the wages of sin. _

_--_

**iv; the detour**

If it wasn't for the large blue sign, illuminated by spotlights that ran underneath it, which read "Welcome to Delaware" that the old Buick had just passed, Spot would have thought it was just another one of Cowboy's jokes. He sighed. This is what happens when he leaves the get away driving to a girl who doesn't know the difference between her left and right.

"Jess? If you took the Jersey Turnpike straight south, instead of heading back up to New York, why didn't you just turn around at the first exit?" he asked plainly.

Now, Spot Conlon did not scare easily. He had been in a juvenile detention center at the age of fifteen for grand theft auto – his father bought the judge off eventually and he was released without so much as a mark on his record – and had seen things that no kid should see. But, when he asked that question and he saw the flashing in Jessa's green eyes as she glared into the rearview mirror – a look that was surely meant for him – well, he wasn't scared, exactly. More like nervous.

That was the look she gave Jack that time right before she super glued his hands to his butt cheeks. Spot still wasn't sure how she was able to do that. He knew it involved lots of beer, a tube of super glue, and some really suggestive comments on Jess's part but he and Becky hightailed it (well, stumbled really) out of that hotel room right after they witnessed that 'Look'. He was not about to give her another opportunity to try. For all he knew, she still owned that super glue.

Without losing his cool, he leaned back. "You know what… I take that back. I like Delaware. They got Quick Stops here, right?"

--

As soon as they went over the Delaware Memorial Bridge (and Jack had to fork over another two dollars in tolls), Jess took the first exit she saw. She continued to drive, ignoring the rest of the people in the car: Jack was grumbling that now Spot owed him five dollars, Becky was trying to figure out where exactly they were and Spot was acting like it was his idea to take a trip to Delaware rather than regroup back in New York. She distinctly heard him tell Becky that 'Delaware is a great place to hit'.

Once they were off of the interstate, Becky sat up in her seat. She had never gone further south than the tip of New Jersey; the only two states she had ever been in were New York and New Jersey. The Conlon Gang, their own little band of petty outlaws (that which they pretended to be), normally stuck to hitting the local Quick Stops that littered the tri-State area. In the year and a half that they had been robbing convenience stores (shortly after Spot's nineteenth birthday), the four of them – sometimes more, sometimes less but mainly just them four – had never needed to leave the area.

Until now. Until Jessa took one wrong turn and continued driving until they hit Delaware. If she didn't know that Jess was a total spaz when it came to directions (making it very possible that she went south instead of north), she would think the girl planned this detour.

She watched as Jess maneuvered her way off of the interstate. As soon as they were on some back road, surrounded by the trees Becky had seen earlier, Jess pulled the car over to the side. She killed the engine and, without another word, unbuckled her seat belt and opened her door.

Before any of the other three people in the car could do anything, she had stalked off.

After a few seconds of confused silence, Jack undid his own seat belt and went after her. Spot just leaned back against his seat, thin, nimble fingers massaging his temples. Becky, sitting cross-legged in the back seat, just waited quietly for the pair to return, while twirling a piece of her fair hair between her fingers.

Becky may be the acting decoy of the four of them but it was Jess who had the penchant for the dramatics.

--

After Jack followed after Jess, Becky leaned over Spot and switched the tab on the inside roof of the car. The small light filled the car immediately.

She looked at Spot. He had one cyan eye closed while the other was lazily watching her, squinted against the offending light. His earlier nap had caused the eye kohl he wore to smudge and smear. However, it made him look all the more irresistible to her. Only Spot Conlon (_and Captain Jack Sparrow_, thought Becky with a smile) could make messy eye makeup look good.

Becky drew herself up on her knees and crawled over to Spot. While still leaning back into the seat, he spread his legs slightly so that the girl could crawl right between them, one knee resting at his crotch and the other dangling over the edge of the car seat.

She leaned forward and gently kissed his neck. Spot did not move. He let her do what she wanted.

It was very rare that the two of them got any time by themselves. Ever since that first heist, they either spent their time in the old Buick, with the others, or hiding out in a motel, with the others. When they dared to return to New York, Spot stayed at Jack's apartment – Mr. Kelly had a soft spot for his son's only friend – while Becky returned to her mother.

And it wasn't like Jessa and Jack didn't know what went on between them. The two of them had accidentally walked in on Becky and Spot more times than they cared to admit; Becky routinely forgot to put up the 'do not disturb' tag on the hotel door after sending the pair out on a pointless errand.

The relationship between the two of them was different. They loved each other, even if they never said it. They needed each other, even if they never showed it. Spot just didn't have enough of himself to give any of his heart to her; the bit she had – the bit she stole that first day at Ellie Smith's party – was dangerous enough in her possession.

It was in these moments – sweet, tender moments stolen in the back seat of the Buick – when they could be what they could have been: a pair of kids in love. But then reality sets in. She is the once-sweet-and-innocent-girl-next-door, eager to do anything for the man she loves; he's the rebel, lashing out at the privileged lifestyle he grew up in, purposely choosing a life of crime.

It seemed Spot would do anything to distance himself away from his accustomed affluence, including petty theft. And Becky? She would do anything for him.

--

Becky asked him once, shortly after their second heist, what it was that made him want to knock over local convenience stores.

It couldn't be the money, she reasoned. Quick Stops never got them more than a few hundred dollars; Spot Conlon, following his parents' accidental death, inherited all their wealth. True, he wouldn't get that money until he turned twenty-one in October, six months away, but he had more than enough to survive until then.

Could it be the thrill of it all? Pretending to be something he's not just for those few minutes, when he can scare the shit out of some poor counter jockey? She figured that was what it was. Or maybe it was because it gave him something to do. After graduating high school, none of the three had moved on to college. Becky had gotten into the Community College near her house but postponed enrollment until the next semester. And the next semester. And the next semester… It didn't matter to her mother; Samantha McKay was just happy that her only daughter had finally found a boy – and a wealthy one to boot.

His answer had surprised her though.

She had asked her question innocently enough. Spot had waited to see if she would smile and crack a joke. She didn't; she honestly wanted to know.

He thought about it for a second. His cyan eyes had looked past her, peering out the car window on her side. He watched as car after car passed his sight. They were on the Interstate that day, on the way back to the City, and there were more than enough vehicles to keep his mind off of Becky's question.

Finally, he shrugged. "Because I can."

--

Jessa heard Jack's footsteps following behind her and, with her nose planted firmly in the air, she pretended that she hadn't heard him. She knew he would follow, of course. She would have been surprised if he did not. It didn't mean, though, that she was going to acknowledge his presence.

He hurried his pace just then, extending his arm so that, once he caught up to her, he grabbed hers. "Would you just stop for a second?"

She yanked her arm out of his hold but, at least, did as he asked. She waited for him to speak, her back turned to him. "What?" she said, the pout evident in her whisper.

He shook his head and placed each of his hands on one side of her. This time, she did not shake him loose or move away. Jack took that as a good sign and proceeded to spin her around.

It was much darker than before. The trees that lined the lonely road seemed to block out any light from the moon. The only bit of illumination they had was the gas station at the end of the street, the neon sign appearing to be nothing more than a faint pinprick from the distance. It was difficult to see her face; that's when he realized that he _couldn't _see her face.

While she kept her nose high as she stormed away from the car, her head was now lowered submissively. She did not want to face him.

He adopted a calmer tone. "What's the matter, Jess?"

Her answer was a mixture of mumbles and sniffs. With her head turned downward, she was talking into her chest. Jack could not make out what she was saying. And, to make it worse, she was crying.

Like any self-respecting boy, Jack hated it when a girl cried.

He released his hold on her left shoulder and, using his right hand, lifted her chin up. He was right. He could see the tears as they began to travel down her cheeks. He hesitated before wiping away the moisture. When he did, she didn't flinch. She really was upset.

"I didn't mean to end up in Delaware."

--

Jack Kelly tried not to laugh at her confession. He could not believe that something as small as that was bothering her. It's not like this wasn't the first time Jessa's driving got them lost. It was just the furthest lost she ever got them.

But she was upset and it was his job to try to make her feel better. Or, at the very least, use her grief to cop a few cheap feels. He may be self-respecting (for the most part, anyway) but he was still a boy, after all.

He moved his hands so that his arms were wrapped around her. She was shivering slightly – she was still wearing her t-shirt and cut-offs and, now that the sun had set, it was chilly out – and welcomed his warmth. Knowing that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, he pulled her closer until she was pressed against him.

"Don't worry, Jess. It's my fault, really. Isn't that what you said back in the car?"

Definitely the wrong choice of words on Jack's part. She had forgotten about his stupidity. _If he hadn't grabbed me and caused me to miss the north ramp, I wouldn't have ended up going south. And how was I supposed to know that Delaware was south?_

She tensed and he tried to calm her by rubbing his hand up and down her back. It didn't work.

He could tell she was mad. She was quiet now, and he could feel (and hear) her breathing heavily against his neck. _Well, if she's gonna be pissed at me, I might as well make the most of this situation…_

And, slowly, Jack began to move his hand downward.

--

Becky, in between kissing Spot, had only been able to remove his shirt. He was still resting in the back seat, his bare chest rising and falling with his excited breath but his hands were now raised. He had slipped them under her shirt and was working on undoing the front clasp of her bra when they heard the slap.

_Smack._

The noise, because they both knew (they had heard it many times before, after all) what it was, effectively killed the mood.

Becky pulled away from Spot and retook her seat, making sure her bra was still fastened as she did so. Spot wiped away the lipstick that had transferred to his face before reaching for his black shirt. He only had just enough time to put it back on and resume his lazy position against the Buick door before Jessa and Jack approached the car.

Neither of the two back seat passengers could help but notice that, as Jack took the driver seat, he was rubbing his left cheek. But he was smiling.

Jess, on the other hand, wordlessly took the passenger seat. She looked even angrier than she had when she stormed away.

--

Author's Note: _Goodness, I've been working on this chapter for _days _now. I know what I want to say and I know how the chapter following this will go, but it's so hard to get it down sometimes. So, in the end, I decided on a bit of humor and some romance before we get into the drama. I hope you like it. More coming soon. _


	5. v: the hotel

Disclaimer: _I do not own the characters of Spot Conlon, Jack Kelly or any other character from the 1992 Disney musical, _Newsies_. I do, however, own Jessa Rhian and Becky McKay. The plot is my own; the story's title comes from the poem, "The Story of Bonnie and Clyde" by Bonnie Parker. _

--

**death is the wages of sin **

The story of Becky McKay and Spot Conlon, a modern day Bonnie and Clyde.  
_They've been shot at before but they do not ignore that death is the wages of sin. _

_--_

**v; the hotel**

It was awkward in the old car. Following Jack and Jess's most recent fight, none of the four occupants had said a word to one another. Well, Becky had tried to say something but none of the others had responded to her attempts at civil conversation. But they were all too tired and very cranky – after all, they had been driving for almost four hours and were still going in the total opposite direction from where they were originally supposed to go.

And it was quiet, too. After Jack had taken the driver's seat and started the car, Jess had purposely turned the radio off. "Headache," she snapped before any of the other's could question her. They all left it that.

The car was still heading south but was no longer heading down the Interstate; instead, Jack, being the typical male, had decided that he would find a place for them all to stay – without stopping to ask for directions. When Jess had figured out that was his plan, she had snorted but said nothing.

Spot had stretched out across the wide back seat. After the arguing pair had interrupted him and Becky, he had laid down and placed his head on Becky's lap; she did not mind and was, now, idly playing with a lock of Spot's dirty blonde hair.

It had been almost forty-five minutes since Jack took over as the driver and Jess turned off the radio. They were still driving aimlessly down back roads, they still had not found a single hotel and they were still all being extremely quiet.

That was when Jess, finally tired of the quiet – obviously her headache had disappeared – turned on the radio. At first, all they found was static; all of the stations programmed into the Buick were for the tri-state area and were not registered stations in Delaware. She heard Jack click his tongue as he drove. She ignored him.

After fiddling with the knobs for a bit, Jess finally got one of the stations to come in. It was silent for a few seconds, only the melody of the song and the female vocalist's southern lilt filling the car, before Jess let out a squeal of recognition before singing along with the radio: "Our little pony-tailed girl growed up to be a woman… Now she's gone in the blink of an eye…She left the suds in the bucket and the clothes hangin' out on the line…"

As Jess was bopping her head along to the music and singing, Spot jerked his head up and almost growled. "Jess?"

"Yee-_haw_!" was her reply as she continued to sing along to the song. She was now beating her hands on the dashboard in rhythm to the quick beat. Jack was trying not to laugh as he kept his eyes on the road.

Spot had returned his head to Becky's lap. "Jess?" he tried again, softer this time. Though, that might have been because his hands were covering his face.

She did not pay any attention to him. She continued to sing. "She's got her pretty little bare feet hangin' out the window… And they're headed up to Vegas tonight… How could 18 years just up and walk away?" Her voice was growing louder with each word. She knew it was annoying the other three people in the car and she did not care. Who cares if she couldn't carry a tune, anyway?

Becky took pity on Spot. The boy just about curled up and hid when he heard country music. Said he was allergic to it. "Hey, Jessa?"

"Our little pony tailed girl growed up to be a woman… Now she's gone in the blink of an eye… She left the suds in the bucket and the clothes hangin' out on the line…"

By now, Jack had lost the battle to keep his face straight and was out and out laughing. Spot had turned his head around and was burying himself in Becky's lap. Becky was trying not to sing along with Jess. The song really was kind of catchy.

"She was in the backyard, say it was a little past nine…When her prince pulled up, a white pick up truck…"

Spot lifted his head again. He really couldn't handle the song any more. And, with his luck, another hillbilly song would come on next and he would have to plug up his ears. That, or rip Jess' vocal chords out. As much as she enjoyed herself when the fancy struck, the girl really could not sing. He was not in the mood to humor her. "Jessa Rhian, turn that shit off before I do it for you. I still have my gun back here somewhere," he threatened.

She heard him that time. Becky had the suspicion that she heard him earlier but was just ignoring him. At any rate, Jess reached forward with her left hand and turned the radio off before Spot had the chance to act on his threat. As the car became silent once more, she turned around and glared at Spot. "I like country music, Conlon."

"Yeah? Well, I like my ear drums, Rhian."

She held her hand up. "Whatever."

Jack cleared his throat. His laughter had ceased right about the time that Spot started making threats. "Um…I hate to interrupt the fight and all but there's a hotel coming up – I just saw a sign. Should we go for it?"

As Spot was still glaring at Jess's offending hand, and she was trying to play off like she wasn't offended by Spot's comments, Becky jumped in. "Yeah, Cowboy. If I don't get out of this car soon, _I'm_ gonna reach for the gun."

--

"Thank you," Becky said politely to the woman behind the desk. The older woman smiled graciously back before calling the next customer forward.

Since Becky was the real actress of the group, she was usually the one that made arrangements for them all. Spot had a habit of scaring most people he came across – the heavy eyeliner, tight black clothing and almost permanent smirk did that for him. Jack was an insatiable flirt and Jess tired of it quickly – however, if he flirted with someone that _wasn't _her, she got pretty bitchy and quick. So, even if Becky did not regard herself as an actress, she would probably be left to handling outsiders anyway. As it was, she was the only one who did not think herself above other people.

_And that_, she thought as she walked back to where the other three sat lounging about, waiting for her, _is why I get stuck doing their dirty work. They think they're better than me. _She shook her shoulder length blonde hair in annoyance. _If it wasn't for them taking me in, I think I would just tell them what I think sometimes. But I'd rather be here, feeling like shit compared to them, than be home with my Mom._

"What they say, Becky?"

She shrugged apologetically at Spot. "The lady was real nice and all but she told me that, since we got here so late, they didn't have any double suites available."

"Are we gonna have to sleep in the car?" Jack made a face. The last time they had done that, he had ended up with gum – cinnamon, Jess's favorite, not coincidentally – in his hair. Ever since then, he refused to do so. The idea that he might have to do it again brought his hands nervously to his head.

"Not if you don't want to, Cowboy," Becky answered with a devious smile. His hand gesture did not go unnoticed by her. "Listen," she continued, holding up two passkeys with the hotel's name and a room number printed on them, "they did not have a double suite for all four of us but she gave me a good deal on two separate rooms."

Jack looked relieved, Spot looked uninterested but Jess…Jess looked nothing short of suspicious. "That's great, Beck. But who's sleeping with who?"

"I figured it would be me and you sharing a bed and the boys sharing a bed."

"No."

All eyes turned on Spot. His cyan eyes were narrowed, focused on the passkeys.

"No?"

"No, Becky. We're going to share a room. Jess and Cowboy are going to stay together." Before she could protest and he could say something inappropriate, Spot turned his eyes on them. "You two boneheads have not said a good word to each other since we left Jersey and I am not getting back in the car with you until you're civil again. Do you understand?"

Without a word, Jess reached out and snatched one of the passkeys from Becky's hand before storming away.

Jack picked up his bag – and Jess's, since she left it behind – and, with a wolfish grin, followed after the girl.

Becky just shook her head.

--

The room was nicer than to be expected considering the size of the hotel. There was a queen-sized bed in the center, with a dresser and a television set. The bathroom was clean and came with the standard complementary soaps and shampoo. Since the plan had been to return to New York for the weekend, only remaining in New Jersey long enough to hit that particular Quick Stop, the four of them only had the spare change of clothes that they kept in the trunk of the Buick; the free soap was much appreciated.

Becky was relaxing, lying out on the bed, while Spot used the bathroom. She was tired after the long drive – the short nap she had had did nothing for her – but, at the same time, she was anxious. She and Spot had not had much time together lately and she was looking forward to it.

Spot emerged from the bathroom, a smirk on his face and no shirt covering his chest. Becky's heart nearly skipped a beat. He, obviously, was thinking along the same lines as she was.

He sat down at the foot of the bed, presenting Becky with a full view of his elaborate tattoo. He knew how much she liked his body art and he was not surprised when he felt the weight of the bed shift as she crawled over to him.

"Spot," she whispered, draping her arms over his shoulder. He moaned slightly in response. "I love you."

"I know."

--

Becky woke up the next morning wearing nothing but a satisfied smile on her face. She was wrapped up in the crisp white hotel sheets. Spot, being the covers thief that he was, had stolen the floral print comforter sometime in the middle of the night.

He was still sleeping when she woke up. Wrapping the sheet tight around her, Becky drew herself up to her knees and just watched him sleep. It was only when Spot Conlon was sleeping, truly sleeping, that he seemed at peace; his eyes did not watch suspiciously, his face was not twisted in an off-putting smirk. He looked innocent. No one would suspect him of robbing 26 convenience stores and gas stations within the last two years.

Just then, as if he could feel the heat of her gaze, his face twitched and his lips turned downward. He sniffed once.

Becky raised her hand and placed it close enough to Spot's cheek that she was feeling his warmth without actually touching him. He sniffed a second time and snuggled closer to his comforter. She grinned and shimmied her way out of the sheet. After last night's activities, she needed a shower.

--

By the time she finished with her shower – the water pressure was so strong in the hotel that she did not want to get out of the stream – and had wrapped herself up in one of the towels, Spot was awake and sitting up in the bed. He was still wrapped up in the comforter but his naked torso was visible. As quickly as she could she tore her eyes away from his sculpted chest. It was after eleven already and they only had a little bit of time left before check out. She did not want to get drawn in by him again.

Spot watched as Becky, still wet from her shower, walked across the room. She was naked, covered up only by the lush white towel; she had forgotten to gather her clothes up and bring them into the bathroom with her. She was obviously looking for them now. He watched as she bent over and lifted the part of the blanket that was balled up on the floor, scanning the floor before dropping it.

A coy smile spread out on his face. Before she had a chance to get out of his reach, Spot's arm shot out and grabbed the towel away from Becky. "Morning, Beck."

She did not even bat an eye lash at him. Being naked around Spot was nothing new. "You know, Spot, these towels are really soft," she said, grabbing it back and covering herself up again. "I think we should take them."

Spot seemed slightly put out that Becky was wearing the towel again. "Can't, Beck. That's stealing."

"Oh, that's rich," Becky laughed, searching the room for her underwear. Sometimes Spot was a little overactive at night. She saw the piece of silky, pink fabric on the other side of the room, hanging off of the overstuffed chair in the corner. Snatching her panties off of the arm of the chair, Becky slipped them on before turning back to Spot. "Did you just say that it's 'stealing'?"

"Yup."

"And what do you call holding up Quick Stops?" The bra was easy to find. Considering how expensive the lacy piece of cloth was, Spot knew better than to fling that. After removing it, he had dropped on the dresser. She quickly put it on without removing the towel. She knew she was bothering Spot even if he did not say so.

He shrugged as if he did not have a care in the world – except to prove Becky wrong. "Doesn't matter, anyway. If they noticed that the towels are gone, they'll just charge us anyway. So, then, it's not stealing – it's buying, McKay."

"Not if you paid the woman at the desk in cash, _Conlon_," Becky countered, now looking for her outer clothes. The skirt was easy to find but her shirt seemed to have disappeared.

Spot seemed to think about it for a moment. "All right. Let's take the towels."

Becky bent down to retrieve her shirt – it was half under the hotel bed. Once she had it in her hand, she tossed the towel at Spot. "You're an idiot," she said, laughing, as she pulled her shirt back on over her head. "Come on, get dressed. We gotta check out by noon. And, it would probably be a good idea to check up on Jess and the Cowboy. I think the hotel charges if you get massive bloodstains all over their rooms."

His eyes widened a bit, just enough to show Becky that, as aloof as he acted, he was a bit nervous about leaving those two alone overnight. "Yeah, okay. But if they killed each other, I ain't cleaning up the mess."

--

Author's Note: Goodness, I've been working on this chapter for days now. I know what I want to say and I know how the chapter following this will go, but it's so hard to get it down sometimes. So, in the end, I decided on a bit of humor and some romance before we get into the drama. I hope you like it.


	6. vi: the mistake

Disclaimer: _I do not own the characters of Spot Conlon, Jack Kelly or any other character from the 1992 Disney musical, _Newsies_. I do, however, own Jessa Rhian and Becky McKay. The plot is my own; the story's title comes from the poem, "The Story of Bonnie and Clyde" by Bonnie Parker. _

--

**death is the wages of sin **

The story of Becky McKay and Spot Conlon, a modern day Bonnie and Clyde.  
_They've been shot at before but they do not ignore that death is the wages of sin. _

_--_

**vi; the mistake**

It did not take long for Spot to find his clothes, still scattered across the room, and slip them back on. Having taken his shower almost right after they arrived at the hotel, he did not feel the need to do more than splash some cool water on his face and reapply his eyeliner. It was his trademark, really, and he knew how much Becky liked seeing his piercing eyes outlined in black kohl. He winked at his reflection, aware of Becky's pretty face watching him from the doorway. He saw the minor bulge in her bag and smirked. She really did take the towels.

As soon as he was ready, Becky looped her arm through his and gave him a quick peck on his cheek. She knew that, once they had met up with Jessa and Jack, Spot would instantly distance himself from her – both physically and emotionally. She would take advantage of their alone time while she could.

"We got everything, right, Beck?" he asked, letting his head rest on her shoulder for a moment. His hand was already extended towards the hotel doorknob but he paused to let her think over his question. The last time they had stayed at some two-bit dive, Becky had accidentally left behind her decoy wig, one sock and Jack's red bandana.

Now, the wig and the sock they could do without – but not the damn bandana. Even though they had been an hour along down the road when they realized that the objects were not with them, Jack insisted that they return just for the worn scrap of fabric. In fact, it was more like he refused to pull another job without it; turned out that he regarded it as his lucky charm.

Becky nodded. "I did a quick sweep. We didn't leave nothing behind in our room," she answered, a bit of a pout in her voice. Even though he had not explicitly implied anything, she was well aware what he was referring to. As if there wasn't enough that the other's poked fun of her for…

"Good." He opened the door and let her step out first. He followed her into the narrow hallway before closing the door firmly behind them. "Alright, where to?"

"I don't know, Spot. Should we go get those two from their room?"

Spot lifted Becky's left hand up and raised it to his eyes. There was a slim silver watch on her wrist; he read the position of the hands. "What time did you say check out was?"

"Noon."

He let her hand fall back to her side. "It's five to twelve now. Do you think they'll still be in their room?"

Becky shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know. But seeing as it's almost noon, we probably should stop downstairs and check out before going to look for them."

"What for? So we're a bit late turning in our passkeys, big deal."

"Yeah, well," Becky said, removing her arm from his hold before grabbing onto his hand. She started to pull him down the corridor in the direction of the elevator. "It's not like we can just head off to their room to get them, anyway, you know."

Spot let her pull him forward, only putting up a minor amount of resistance – dragging his heels, slightly, and letting his arm go loose – in a joking manner. "And why is that, Becky?" He recognized her tone of voice: she had done something stupid again.

"Because I can't, for the life of me, remember what room their passkey was for," she grinned sheepishly as she pressed the upside down triangular in order to summon the elevator.

Spot just shook his head. He wasn't surprised.

--

They were surprised to find that, when they made it to the front lobby, Jack and Jess were already waiting for them. The two of them were sitting together on one of the chaise lounges that made up the tacky room. But, as Becky pointed out – she grabbed Spot's arm just as they left the elevator and stopped him as she snickered – they were not sitting side by side. With a relaxed smile on her face, Jess was sitting on top of Jack's lap, letting him play with one of her curls. Jack was laughing at something she had said; for once, he did not look as if he was acting like his cocky self.

While Becky found it amusing and didn't want to interrupt the pair, Spot shook his head and strode forward. He was used to scenes like this: whenever the two of them thought that they were alone, they actually let down their guards enough to show each other how they felt. It wasn't often and, when they did, Spot was quick to break it up (even if he was the one who forced them to get along with each other). He preferred the two of them fighting. It worried him when they were more than civil if only because it meant the fight that would follow when they started acting like themselves again would be massive.

"Morning."

The expression on Jess's face was priceless. Almost as if Jack's touch burned, she jumped up and hurriedly walked away from the fancy chair. "Becky," she greeted, her face blushing a furious shade of red, "and Spot," she added, almost as an afterthought, "you guys sleep well?"

Spot lifted an eyebrow as Jack winked at him once before making his way over to them all. He shook his head. "Probably as well as you two did," he said wryly before handing Becky their passkey. "Beck, go drop that off for me, alright?"

"Sure, Spot." She accepted it and started to head over to the front desk, leaving the trio alone.

Jack elbowed Spot in the side. "Thanks, buddy. That was a good idea last night."

"I've got to have one every now and again."

Jess glared at the two of them – more ferociously at Spot, though – as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Sometimes I wonder why I put up with the two of you."

"Because you love us?"

Becky came back just in time to hear Jack's offhanded comment. She chuckled. "Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Cowboy," she joked before turning to look at Spot. She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "The woman at the desk wanted to know if she should expect us back tonight. She's got a double free."

Spot shook his head. "Nope. I was thinking about it last night. I don't think we should stick around here. It don't feel right for me." He didn't elaborate on that; instead, with Becky's bag in hand, he started to head out the door. It was a signal that the discussion was closed – Becky understood that and quickly followed after him.

He headed straight over to the car, unlocking it and slipping into the driver's seat. Becky took the passenger seat, beside Spot, before Jack had the chance. As soon as she had put her seatbelt on – just in case; Spot was one hell of a speed demon when the mood struck his fancy – she glanced over at him. "Okay, then. What's the plan now, Spot?"

His head looking over his shoulder, Spot waited for the other two to climb into the backseat of the vehicle. As soon as they were all comfortable – he noticed that there was a wide berth between the pair now – he threw the car in reverse, tires squealing as he peeled out of the hotel's parking lot. He was barely paying attention to where the car was going but, right before he smacked into a car that was attempting to enter the lot, he switched gears and started down the road. He purposely chose to ignore that Becky's grip on the door's handle was so tight that her knuckles had gone white.

"We're gonna go back to New York to find the next hit," he said, smoothly, as he cruised the old car down the semi-vacant street, "It's too quiet down here."

It did not go by unnoticed that Spot chose to leave the car radio off.

--

Spot had lied. He couldn't even wait to make it back into New York before planning the next job.

It was such a remote location for a convenience store, just barely within the New Jersey state lines. Spot felt a little bit safer being on familiar territory, regardless of the fact that it was territory that he had never actually been before; just knowing that they had forsaken Delaware for the "Welcome to New Jersey" sign made him feel better about hitting a store after only one day of casing it.

Not that he really believed that this particular Quick Stop needed more than one day of observation. It was the only store around for miles, surrounded by acres and acres of trees and farmlands. In fact, it had been an accident that they stumbled across it at all. Not more than an hour into their long trek back to the City, Jess had decided that she needed to pee – and, no matter what Spot said (she was still holding a grudge for the way he had treated her after the last job in Jersey, that was obvious), she was not about to do so on the side of the road.

Spot had ignored her complaints and her insults as he drove down the interstate but, when Jess started to kick the back of his seat, he gave up and gave in. He turned off on the first exit he saw, hoping that he'd find a gas station with a bathroom just to shut Jess up.

Unfortunately, the exit that he picked was probably one of the worst ones he could have chosen. It took him almost half an hour for them to finally come across some signs of civilization: a Quick Stop that had definitely seen better days.

The fact that this shop was surrounded by nothingness did not go unnoticed by Spot. The cogs in his mind were already hard at work before he had arrived at the entrance to the building – even from a distance he could spot the familiar logo of a Quick Stop – and, right when the old Buick would have to turn to enter the small parking lot, he chose to drive on (completely ignoring Jess's cries of protest).

After she threatened to piss in the backseat if he didn't find her a toilet, Spot finally found her a McDonald's that was a good ten minutes down the road from the Quick Stop. When she was busy inside, Spot explained to Becky and Jack his reasons for driving right past the convenience store. It would do no good, he told them, to make a pit stop there when it was a prime target for robbery. If they stopped inside just to use the bathroom, they might draw attention to themselves – it would be impossible to hit the store up for any cash it had after that.

So, an unexpected victim in sight, Spot drove back to the Quick Stop and parked a half a mile down the road from the shop. The four of them spent three hours watching the storefront and were surprised to see that not more than ten cars went past them in all that time; of the ten, perhaps five made quick stops at the Quick Stop.

That sealed it for Spot. Whether or not the shop would prove fruitful, it was simple enough to add to their tally of hits. He could not resist.

Perhaps he should have.

--

The disguised Becky was in place – Spot had sent her into the convenience store more than ten minutes ago while the rest of them stayed behind in the car, waiting for the signal that the shop was clear. The guns were loaded and resting on top of the beige sack. Jack was absently twirling the ends of his bandana while Jess was filing her fingernails. Spot just watched the store from a distance.

Just like it was every time before they did a job, the air in the old Buick was still, the passenger's quiet. Their positions were the same: Spot as the driver, Jack behind him, Jess, sitting cross-legged, off to the right side. The radio had not been turned on again since the country music debate from two days ago. No one wanted to apologize first; it was quite obvious that there was a rift within their small group – or, at least, between Jess and Spot.

Finally, when Jack could not take it anymore – the role of mediator and messenger had fallen to him and Becky – he leaned over and smacked Jess on her knee, trying to get her attention. "C'mon, already. Just forgive Spot. I can't stand it when you two get like this." He had adopted that little boy voice he had, the one he used when he wanted to get someone to do something that he knew they did not want to do.

She sniffed in distaste. She knew that voice. Back when they were still in school, Jack used that voice to get some of the smarter girls in class to do his homework; it was the same voice that he used on her mother when convincing Mrs. Rhian that her daughter was in good hands with him and Spot. She'd be damned if she'd fall for that – she actually knew the real Jack Kelly.

"Nope. Not until he apologizes first."

Spot – though, at first, he was going to just pretend that he could not hear this conversation – shut his eyes, blocking everything out for the moment. He needed total concentration before every heist, regardless of how easy he thought it might be. Dealing with Jess and her drama was not something he needed just then.

He sighed. "What for now, Jess?"

The girl huffed, lowering her emery board and lifting her face so that she could see Spot's reflection in the rearview mirror. "Where should I start? For making fun of the detour we took? For implying that I couldn't sing? Maybe for sticking me with Jack in _both _of the hotels we stayed at down here?" she said, ticking each one off by lifting a finger. She heard Jack make a noise of protest but she cut him off. "How about almost making me piss my pants yesterday? Did you forget that one?"

Spot was tempted to rub at his temples just then; her nagging was enough to give him a headache – definitely not what he needed. "How about this? I pretend to apologize, you shut up, we get on with this job? How's that, Jess?" he drawled, slowly opening his eyes.

"Don't do my any favors, Conlon."

He shrugged. "Fine."

--

This Quick Stop was a lot smaller than the one they had hit up two days ago. To Becky's chagrin, there wasn't even a full magazine section for her to keep her attention on as she discreetly checked out the location.

She stood in front of the snacks section, pretending to make the insanely hard choice between Doritos and some store brand of cheese doodles. Over her shoulder, she could make out the clerk. He was a young guy – probably around her age – and not half-bad looking. He had sharp features, was pretty tall, and had short dark hair. His eyes, she could tell when he glanced up to check on her, were a light blue color. Not as nice as Spot's, of course, but pretty close.

He wasn't really paying attention to the store. He had a book with him up at the counter and seemed more interested in that than the pretty girl who was hanging around.

Becky was relieved. She had promised her mother that she would be home soon – she explained the quick detour into Delaware as a mini-vacation rather than a mistake on Jessa's part – and was anxious to change into some fresh clothes. The quicker this job was over with, the quicker they could get back to Manhattan.

Slyly, while still acting as if her snack choice was that important, she glanced down at her watch. It had been nearly fifteen minutes and there had not been any customers since she walked into the door. She doubted there would be, either.

Nodding to herself, she picked up a package of Cool Ranch Doritos and started to head over to the cashier. Then, as if she remembered something, she walked past the counter and made her way in front of the entrance; as she sidled past the door, she calmly lifted her hand and scratched her head.

Spot and Jack were in the store, hats on and guns in hand, almost before she had made it back to her position in front of the snack rack.

--

Everything was going smoothly. Jack was at the counter, watching as the clerk filled up the beige sack with cash. Spot was standing with Becky, his gun pressed to her head; she was sniffling, sending fearful looks in the direction of the cashier – just in case he got any ideas, it was her job to make sure that he remembered that he was not alone.

He was going slowly, almost deliberately, as he placed the bills inside of the bag.

Jack cocked his gun and lifted it so that he could aim better. "Hurry up," he barked, making his voice sound octaves lower than it normally did. He had noticed the clerk's resistance, too.

The boy nodded and quickly stuffed the rest of the money inside. With a shaking hand, he offered the bag out to Jack.

Jack snatched it from him but kept his gun lifted. "Move."

He started to move. Whether he had two left feet or was just that nervous, the three of them watched as he stumbled. He disappeared behind the counter, the loud smack of his knees against the ground confirming that he had fallen.

Spot tensed and removed his gun from its place within Becky's black hair. He was a creature of instinct – he followed his gut. And, right then, his gut was saying that something was wrong.

He was right.

The clerk was not on the ground for more than a few seconds and, before Jack could move and look over the counter to see what had happened, he was back. But he was not empty handed.

The goddamn employee had a revolver in his hands. And he was pointing it right at Jack.

"Put your guns down," he said, his voice wavering almost as much as his hands. "Put your guns down and let the girl go."

He was playing the hero. This kid, not more than twenty years old, was trying to save Becky. And the three of them had no idea how to handle this; they had never stared down the barrel of a gun before.

None of the jobs had ever gone this wrong before.

All of a sudden, Becky realized just how lucky they had been up until then. She gulped and started to tremble – it was not part of her act, either.

--

When neither gunman made any move to put their guns on the floor, the clerk started to shake even more. It was a face-off and neither party planned on giving in first.

He spoke again. "I—I mean it. Let her go… or I'll shoot. I will."

Spot decided to call him on his bluff. Even though he had never shot his gun at anyone – they had never had the need to – he was sure he could. This kid… he didn't have the nerve. "Don't kid yourself. Why don't you put your gun down and we'll just leave. We'll take this here girlie with us and leave you alone." He knew he sounded patronizing but that was the point. He needed the clerk to understand that this was not a game – the odds were even more in their favor than this do-gooder schmuck realized.

Hoping that she would catch on, Spot discreetly poked Becky in his side with his elbow. She jerked but automatically added, "Please… just do what he says." She made sure to sound as pathetic as possible, even allowing some of the tears she called up to slide down her cheeks. "Please…"

The clerk, they all could see, was at a loss for what to do. There was a split-second of complete indecision as he looked from the two gunmen to the raven-haired hostage. He nodded. He knew exactly what he had to do.

Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, he locked his arms and pointed his gun at Jack. Slowly, as if all time had stopped, his fingers began to squeeze down on the trigger.

Jack's reflexes, while quick, were not _that_ quick.

But Spot's were.

His gun was aimed and the shot was fired before the innocent clerk had even moved the trigger more than a fraction of an inch.

--

Author's Note: _It's been months since I even looked at this story but, after watching a Bonnie & Clyde special on TV the other day, I thought I'd work on this sucker again. With this chapter we begin to delve into the darker bits of the story. And, if you didn't realize it, it's much longer than it has been – I didn't mean to do that but, since it took me so long to update, I figured it deserved it. I just hope that someone remembers this from last summer and decides to give it another shot ;)_


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